Of course, I became curious about the
Hoffmann story on which the ballet is based (in a roundabout way: Alexandre
Dumas wrote a version of it which is the actual basis of the ballet), and since
I had just survived a rather gruelling part of my teacher-training course I
clearly deserved rewarding with a new book or two. The Anthea Bell translation
(published by Pushkin Press in one of their delightful little volumes along
with another of Hoffmann’s stories, ‘The Strange Child’) arrived at exactly the
right moment. For the last few weeks I’ve been in a state of inertia – I have
two part-written posts languishing on my computer and no energy or inspiration
to complete them, and I’m feeling anxious about my course without this anxiety
translating into anything as useful as action. So, curling up with a story for
which the word ‘charming’ must have been invented was precisely what was in
order.

(Dagmar Berková, illustration for ‘The Nutcracker and the Mouse King’, edition published in Prague, 1964; found here)

As with many fairy
tales, there’s a lot of plot (although the characters are much more delineated
than the characters tend to be in the Grimms’ folk tales) and part of the
pleasure of the story is Hoffmann’s inventiveness so I won’t spoil it here by
explaining much of what happens. One Christmas the three Stahlbaum children
receive the present of a nutcracker doll from Godfather Drosselmeier, a
councillor who can repair clocks and make amazing mechanical toys. Drosselmeier is a mysterious figure, both benevolent and slightly sinister, a manipulator perhaps of people as well as toys and, as the teller of the tale of Princess Pirlipat, a possible alter-ego for the narrator-Hoffmann who himself intrudes in the text.

Seven-year-old Marie immediately forms a strong
bond with the Nutcracker:

You couldn’t have called him an imposing
figure, for his rather long, straight torso was set on thin little legs, and
his head seemed far too large. However, his elegant clothes made up for it,
showing that he was a cultivated man of good taste. [...] Marie kept gazing at
the dear little man, whom she had loved at first sight, and she saw what a kind
face he had. His pale-green, slightly protuberant eyes expressed nothing but
friendliness and goodwill. And the neat cotton-wool beard on his chin suited
the little man very well, setting off the sweet smile of his bright-red mouth.

He is no ordinary Nutcracker, as
Drosselmeier later tells her, and Marie is drawn into his struggle with the seven-headed
Mouse King and his sad history. Hoffmann manages to write in a way which is
both witty and apparently innocent, and this seems perfectly to capture the wonder
and sensitivity of children, as well as the frustrations of their dealings with
adults (who stupidly will not believe
that the Nutcracker can come alive) and the nightmares of which they are
capable. The sweetness of the story is balanced by the cruelty with which
Mistress Mousie and her children are treated by Princess Pirlipat’s parents,
the destruction of the little sugar people, the ingratitude of Pirlipat to
Nutcracker and the horror of the abominable Mouse King. After the initial
battle with the mouse army, the Mouse King torments Marie night after night,
demanding the sacrifice of more and more of her toys as the price of the Nutcracker’s
safety:

Oh how anxious poor Marie was that night!
She felt something icy pattering up and down her arm, and something rough and
disgusting touched her cheek, and there was a squealing and a squeaking in her
ear – and she saw the terrible Mouse King sitting on her shoulder, with his
seven pairs of blood-red jaws open and slobbering at her, and his teeth
grinding and chattering. He hissed at the poor child, who was rigid with fear
and horror, ‘Hiss, hiss, beware, beware... won’t go in the trap to feast in there
– won’t be caught, not me, hiss hiss! I’ll have your picture books, miss, and
your pretty dress too, or I’ll never leave you! Just so that you know, for
Nutcracker must go, bitten in two he’ll be, hohoho, hee-hee! Squeak!’

Ugh! Imagine waking up to that!

(Artuš Scheiner, illustration for ‘The Nutcracker and the Mouse King’ in an edition published in 1924 in Prague; found here)

Despite the scoffing of the rest of Marie’s
family, it’s very clear that what happens to Marie is ‘real’, not a dream or a
story she’s made up, or some sort of hallucination. Hoffmann believed that the
Enlightenment represented an attack on the imagination, and his work champions
other realities than those which are empirically verifiable, such as the worlds
Marie discovers. He wrote the story in 1816 for Fritz and Marie, two of the
children of his friend Julius Eduard Hitzig, and as well as naming two of his
characters after these ‘real’ children he frequently addresses them directly:

As I was saying, the room was very well
furnished, and you may believe me, because I don’t know whether you, my
attentive little listener Marie – yes, you know the little Stahlbaum girl’s
name is Marie too! – well, as I was going to say, I don’t know whether you too
have a little doll’s sofa with flowered upholstery, several dear little chairs,
a sweet tea table and above all a very nice, neat little bed where your most
beautiful dolls can rest.

further blurring the lines between ‘fiction’
and ‘reality’, as well as giving the text a playful, chatty tone which perhaps
nods to the writing-down of oral fairy tales by the Grimms and others. The playfulness
as well as the horror and a streak of cruelty prevent the story from ever
threatening to be saccharine, even when Marie visits the Land of Toys and
marvels at it:

Soon the sweetest of scents wafted towards
them from a wonderful little wood opening up on both sides. There was such a
gleaming and a sparkling in the foliage that you could see gold and silver
fruits hanging from brightly coloured stems, and the trunks and branches of the
trees were adorned with ribbons and bunches of flowers, like happy brides and
bridegrooms and their cheerful wedding guests. And when the scent of orange
blossom wafted like a gentle breeze, the branches and leaves rustled, and thin,
shiny strips of metal foil crinkled and crackled in the air, making a sound
like cheerful music, while the sparkling little lights hopped and danced up and
down.

Everything seems to be alive, even the
lights and the foil (which I suppose makes sense if you are visiting a world in
which seemingly inanimate toys and sweets have a vital existence).

This really is a wonderful story and I
insist that every visitor to this blog read it by the end of the year – you owe
it to yourselves, dear readers, and you will not be disappointed... (but do
take the trouble to find Anthea Bell’s translation as it is obviously superior
to other widely available versions).